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Toren Daen

Hornfels didn’t even seem to notice me. The blonde dwarf’s eyes were entirely focused on the body of his dead twin, unaware of my existence. He looked like he’d been put through a blender–his hair was burned in patches, a deep cut stretched across his jaw, and standing out on his bare shoulder was a dark bruise.

The dwarf tumbled forward, kneeling at his brother’s body. His hands reached out in a painfully familiar way as he tried to staunch the bleeding over Skarn’s mana core. “Come on, brother,” he wheezed, his voice breaking. “Please, not like this. No! You’re fine. You’re okay! This… This is nothing!”

The words themselves were a statement, but they echoed into the din of the cavern as a silent plea.

The blood slowly drained from my face as Hornfels’ intent washed over me. I stumbled back, tears gathering at the edges of my vision as it assaulted me from all sides. It hit me like a hundred hammer blows constantly falling, grinding the nails of truth deeper into my flesh. The grief–the familiar denial and bitter terror. The pain of having a brother wrenched from you before your eyes.

I bit back a sob as I stepped backward, twofold grief and guilt assaulting me and making my head swim. I blinked, and suddenly it wasn’t Hornfels mourning the body of Skarn. No, I saw myself kneeling over Norgan’s body, trying desperately to quell the flow of blood as it leaked from his sternum. My vision flashed red, the two images overlapping in an impossible truth.

I tripped over a jutting bit of rubble, my vision shaking as painful, raw memories tore their way through my skull like liquid fire. I fell hard on my tailbone, a jutting rock slicing through my leg as I struck it.

The sound of my fall seemed to rip Hornfels Earthborn from his grief. He looked toward me with familiar eyes. Eyes that had just lost everything and saw no reason to exist.

I bore those eyes, once, I thought, feeling the urge to vomit once more as Hornfels held my gaze like a cruel vise.

Aurora sensed my emotions. She felt my grief. My panic. My confusion and disgust. She felt my madness. I could vaguely hear her as she tried to speak to me; tried to pull me away. But I… I couldn’t. My thoughts flowed like tar as I stared at the man I’d just stolen a brother from.

And then Hornfels seemed to understand. He roared in bestial rage as he grabbed his dead brother’s axe–the same one that had nearly relieved me of my head–and threw himself at me like a rabid animal.

I scrambled to the side, all form and technique gone as I clawed myself away on pure instinct. Skarn’s axe embedded itself into the ground, sending chips of stone and waves of mana all around in a whirlwind. Those shards of stone opened small cuts all along my body, but that was inconsequential as I pulled myself to my feet.

Hornfels turned wild eyes toward me, his face locked into a rictus snarl. He swung that axe at me again, the blade heavy and laden with earth mana. I barely deflected it with the edge of Inversion, all my martial forms abandoning me.

Suddenly, I was the same Toren from nearly a year ago. The Toren who had watched his brother die to an unknown enemy, forced to watch helplessly. At that moment, I didn’t know any martial arts. I didn’t have any knowledge of mana or self-defense. I was just as wild as the dwarf across from me as he tried to crater in my skull.

“I’ll kill you!” Hornfels bellowed, his cry wrought with grief. He bore no technique either as he tried to avenge his twin. “You fucking monster!”

The edge of his axe clipped my side, drawing a line of blood and sending me tumbling down. I rolled to the side, barely avoiding the edge as it nearly took off my head. I swung Inversion, my breathing coming in rasps as I tried to ward off my attacker.

Hornfels screamed in pain as the point of my weapon scraped across his arm. In response, he grabbed my right hand, slamming it down to the ground. Then he hefted the axe, roaring a battle cry as he brought it down.

For a few moments, I couldn’t feel anything. Then, only pain. Roaring fire trailed up my arm as my hand was severed from my wrist by the axe. I screamed in agony, clutching at the stump of my wrist as it pumped blood.

Hornfels threw the axe away, snarling as his meaty hands wrapped around my throat. They squeezed, cinching like a vise as he slowly cut me off from the air.

“This is for my brother,” he snarled, his eyes flashing as he stared down at me. I clawed uselessly at his hands, spraying them with my blood as my wrist continued to leak crimson fluid. I found it hard to focus through the pain; hard to fight.

My vision slowly darkened around the edges as the bloodflow to my brain was cut off. My struggles slowed, even as my heartbeat thundered in my ears. All I could see above me was a mirror image of myself, taking vengeance on Kaelan Joan for their brutality.

Then I heard something. A buzzing as a wave of unrelenting heat passed overhead, a combination of fire and sound roaring above me.

The hands gripping my neck loosened suddenly, and light streamed back into my vision.

Hornfels was staring wide-eyed down where his chest used to be. A massive, scorched hole smoldered where his sternum had once been, clearly the result of some sort of attack. He looked back down at me, a sense of utter despair taking hold of his eyes.

Then he toppled off of me, falling like a wet sack to the stones with a dead thump. His roaring, grief-filled intent was gone. His heartfire evaporated.

Aurora’s massive relic crashed into the platform a bare second later, her worry and care flooding my mind as she moved over. “Toren, your hand,” she said sternly, her massive beak grabbing something from the stones nearby. “You need to stop the bleeding. You can’t afford to let it keep going. Tend to yourself, my son!”

The massive phoenix construct shuffled over, dropping something into my lap. I blinked slowly, recognizing what I was staring at.

My hand.

I numbly, emptily grabbed my own severed hand with my left, holding it to my still-bleeding wrist. I engaged my heartfire healing a moment later, watching with empty eyes as the limb slowly reattached.

“Toren,” my bond said quietly, sensing the void in my mind. The platform, already so damaged from my earlier attacks, groaned as the large avian construct weighed down upon it. “Toren, look at me,” she demanded.

I didn’t hear her. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from Hornfels’ corpse, his eyes set in a last look of despair. For that moment, my entire world was just this platform, where the bodies of brothers accused me in a rictus of death.

Aurora’s massive relic interposed itself between me and the body, blocking my sight. She didn’t say anything, just wrapped me in her massive wings. I felt myself melt as I fell into her comforting embrace.

But inside, something broke.

Olfred Warend

I marched forward, Hell’s Armor shielding me in its protective cover. My armor of magma shrugged off any spells that came my way throughout the battle, deflecting and dispersing anything that tried to hurt me. Behind me, a small army of magma golems stepped forward unerringly.

My eyes were trained on one of the largest structures in Burim. The bridge I walked across threaded toward it, slowly but surely. All around me, the sound of battle and dying men echoed. Far across the bridge, my final quarry waited, putting up their last stand.

An older elf worked with an armored dwarf to weave a joint spell. The two conjurers funneled more and more mana into their spell, the ambient air reacting and swelling with their focus. I watched as a massive whirlwind grew around the defenders, shards of metal interwoven within.

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Then they sent it rumbling along the bridge, a path torn through the stone as it sought my life.

Two of my magma golems stepped in front of me, raising massive shields of molten stone. The spell hit them, slowly weathering away their forms. I watched with narrowed eyes as they fought against the onslaught of mana.

But they held. Gradually, the torrent of wind dispersed against my guardians, unable to break them. They were significantly damaged, but that didn’t matter.

I reached my hand out, calling to my summons through the ambient mana. With an effort of will, I clenched my magma-armored hand shut. My two golems rose into the air, losing their forms as they became amorphous blobs of molten rock.

I twisted my hand as if I were turning a massive doorknob. The two orbs of magma began to spin under my command, rotating faster and faster. With gritted teeth, they condensed inward, compressing themselves further and further.

The mages on the other end of the bridge began to stumble backward in fear, scrabbling to get away from whatever attack I was about to use. They cried out in terror, lurching away from their last line of defense.

A few stood their ground, raising shields and beginning to rush across the bridge to try and stop me. They were met with magma golems themselves, my stalwart guardians standing strong.

The two compressed spheres arced upward, then fell like burning meteors into the center of the Dicathian resistance. A few mages tried to deflect the attack, but it was no use.

The spheres of condensed magma exploded outward on contact, liquid stone splashing everywhere in a wave. The shockwave alone obliterated everything it came into contact with, throwing soldiers off the ledge and into the yawning abyss of Burim’s cavern below.

And still, I marched forward. I spared the poor, fallen souls below a glance, staring into that darkness. I’d grown up in the deepest slums on the cavern floor of Burim, where anarchy reigned. No fires burned bright enough down below to be seen this far above, but I knew that hundreds struggled to survive in the grim darkness, always terrified of a lavatide.

I pulled myself away from reminiscing about my past, marching onward with my golems as I approached my final destination. I had to compliment that monster that called herself Seris Vritra: she knew how to win a battle. From the very start, each action was perfectly poised to decimate the morale of the loyalists.

Morale was so, so important in battle. Without high morale, mages would fumble with their spells. Their attacks would be weaker; their shots less sure. They’d fail to act critically when they needed to; they’d cow in the face of greater force.

And I saw that here. As the outcome of the battle became clear, more and more dwarves simply… stepped aside, allowing the forces of our rebellion through. How many of these people truly were willing to die for the sake of Dicathen?

As I weathered more spellfire, retaliating with a gyrating hammer of magma, I found myself flashing back to what Toren had told me not long ago. That Agrona would not give the dwarves what my father so desperately desired.

But for all that I spoke to these dwarves, I thought, smashing aside a boulder with my arm as it sought my skull, I do this not for them, but for Rahdeas.

I was free of my Lance artifact. Free, for the first time in a decade. And after I was freed, I had the chance to think for the first time in what felt like years. And eventually, I’d come to a grim conclusion.

Nobody else would fight for Rahdeas as I could. Elder Shintstone was happy to point at his capture and decry the Council as corrupt and horrid. Perhaps Toren Daen might extend himself to try and rescue my father from his captors, but he was ultimately limited by that Scythe.

And that monster wouldn’t act for Rahdeas. Not unless I made it worthwhile.

I finally reached the edge of my destination. A large divot was dented into the ceiling, easily one hundred feet across. All along the rim of the inverted crater, dwarven houses of opulent design were etched into the walls.

This was the safest point in the entire city. After all, lava would never reach this far during the periodic tides. And so it was that it acted as the headquarters for the leader of the city–and in this case, the final garrison of the military leaders of Burim.

I stepped off the platform, allowing myself to fall for a moment before the mana buoyed me upward. I flew into the center of the crater, noting all the mages prepared to face me; each and every one preparing their last stand on the edges of the inverted dent.

“Surrender!” I bellowed, my armor flaring with orange light as I yelled. My voice bounced around the cavern, echoing a hundred times over and seeming to grow deeper with every second passed. “Surrender, and you shall be allowed to go free! All who fight against Darv will face my hammer, but those who give themselves up willingly will be spared!”

“You’re a fool, Warend,” a voice called out in response. It was cracked and worn with age, but still surprisingly strong. I recognized it.

I turned in the air, focusing on one of the larger platforms. Focusing mana into my eyes, I saw who had called out to me.

Vuhmeg Lonuid was an old dwarf: one of the oldest known. He’d retired from fighting two decades ago, and even then he’d been ancient. A silver beard–laced with braids and various trinkets–stretched over his thin frame reaching nearly to his knees. He bore no hair on his head, leaving his deeply wrinkled scowl free to face me.

He must have been a mighty warrior once, and he was one of the few silver core mages I knew that had nearly lived their entire lifespan. But now he held a metal cane for support, hunched over as he stared at me.

This was exactly the dwarf I needed to talk to. Elder Vuhmeg had been placed in charge of Burim by the Triunion Council at the start of the war, and he’d held it since.

“Elder Vuhmeg,” I said with begrudging respect as I hovered closer. All around, the mages poised to protect him leveled their wands and weapons at me, the stench of fear heavy in the air. “I repeat myself. Surrender your city and all shall be spared. We don’t come for conquest and pillaging, only to assert our station in this world.”

The elder was silent as he stared up at me, leaning on his cane for support. “You say that, Warend,” he countered, his voice surprisingly strong despite his frail appearance. “But you’ve invited the Alacryans to our doorstep. Allowed rot to seep into the minds of our people.”

“The Alacryans were not involved in the capture of this city,” I replied. “None of their troops assist us. It is only the people of Darv who fuel our drive.” Except for Toren Daen, I amended, but I wasn’t going to tell Vuhmeg that.

I floated closer. The mages around Elder Vuhmeg charged their spells, ready for a last stand. The old dwarf simply tapped his cane irritably. “Don’t attack, you idiots,” he said scathingly. “Do you want to die so readily? Put down your weapons.”

The officers and captains around the man–dwarf, elf, and human alike–stared at Vuhmeg Lonuid apprehensively, clearly nervous and terrified, but they followed their leader’s orders reluctantly.

“If what you say is true, then the only blood being spilled is that of the good people of Darv,” the aged man said, the trinkets in his long silver beard tinkling as he shook his head. “The only lives lost today were from Dicathen. Don’t you see it, Warend? They’re using you.”

I settled down onto the platform, my hammer of magma pulsing rhythmically. The mages shied back from me, fear radiating from them in waves. Yet I had to applaud their courage: Vuhmeg’s guards refused to leave his side, even as I approached.

“You’ll have plenty of time to wax poeticand wane when this battle is over,” I said gruffly, brushing off his words. I knew the Scythe was using me. I was used to being a tool for everyone powerful I came across, even before I became a Lance. The only person who didn’t treat me as one was Rahdeas. “Do you surrender this city, Elder?”

I stared into the dwarf’s misty blue eyes for a long, pregnant pause. We both knew this was his only option. The rebellion’s forces had spread all throughout Burim and had dealt a critical blow to the forces here right at the start. For all intents and purposes, the rebels had already won. Vuhmeg simply needed to admit it to make it official.

The hunched, elderly man laughed. It was a bitter, cynical sound that resounded over the dying sounds of battle. “I suppose you leave us no choice, do you?” he said, shaking his head and closing his eyes. “I surrender this city to you, Olfred Warend. I hope you do not live to regret your actions here.”

Some of the men and women around the dwarf cried out in shock, but most simply lowered their heads in defeat. I marched forward, my armor falling away and being reabsorbed into the stone beneath me. I looked down at the elderly dwarf.

“Then I declare this city captured in the name of the true dwarves of Darv,” I said after a moment, inspecting the elder whom I respected. “Everyone present shall be taken into custody until further notice.”

As my golems of stone pulled themselves from the nearby rock and roughly clasped the arms of the nearby nobles and military leaders in earthen cuffs, I found myself planning for what came next after this. A few of the nobles ranted about the power of their House and what would happen to me for daring to touch them, but my golems socked those in the stomach.

There were no complaints after that.

A few minutes later, a small contingent of rebels led by Jotilda Shintstone finally reached the Crater. They cheered as they saw the defeated nobility of Burim, shouts of “For Darv!” and “Down with the Council!” echoing into the din.

Jotilda strode over to me, her plate armor dented in many places. Her long, silver braid was burned and unkempt. She limped slightly as she strode triumphantly over.

She smiled as she clapped me on the back. Were I a normal man, I suspected such force would break my back. “Nice work, Warend!” she said, uncharacteristically jovial. “What you’ve done here is amazing. And I foresee far more successes in the future!”

Vuhmeg looked at Jotilda with disappointment, his body hunched over his cane. “You’re a part of this too, Shintstone?” he said, his breath leaving as a disappointed sigh escaped his lips. “I thought better of you.”

Jotilda scoffed, taking Elder Lonuid roughly by the arm. “You can’t run our country into the ground anymore, old man,” she said scathingly, beginning to haul him away. “It’s time Darv ruled itself, and dwarves made decisions for dwarves.”

As Elder Shintstone carted the elderly man away, he turned around to look at me, something deeply sad in his eyes. “This won’t save Elder Rahdeas, Lance Balrog,” he said solemnly. “By inviting the Alacryans in, you’ve doomed him to death no matter what.”

Those words haunted me as cheers of victory echoed around me, sinking into my flesh and gripping my heart just as much as the Lance tether ever did.